


Continental Nights

by slightlyy



Category: John Wick (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 18:11:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4756148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slightlyy/pseuds/slightlyy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Old habits die hard, and all that. John would know. Some things you just can’t quit."</p><p>John Wick is back and more ruthless than ever. Whatever humanity he found during his years on the outside has been burned away. He's a freelancer. Loyal to no one, except to himself and the code. And some days he feels like he wouldn't care if he betrayed them both. </p><p>"You're hired!" she hissed. "Now get me the fuck out of here!"</p><p>John isn't sure why he agrees to protect the woman who calls herself Morgan Le Sue from whoever is trying to kill her. Hell, he was in the same alley when she was getting shot at. He could just as likely be the intended target. But a job is a job, and that's all John Wick has left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Continental Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome. I wrote this because I really fucking wanted some John Wick fanfic in my life and there is a truly sad lack of it. If you're in the John Wick fandom, stop by and say hello.

John nursed a bourbon over ice in a dark corner of the speakeasy in the basement of the Continental where he had a clear view of two exits. The mirror above the bar reflected the entrance. The image was a little distorted but would do. His back in a corner with a view of almost everyone coming and going gave him a sense of security, despite the fact that the Continental was supposed to be neutral ground. Old habits die hard, and all that. John would know. Some things you just can’t quit.

Across the maze of tables and lounges, Winston, the owner of the Continental, raised his glass to John with a pointed look. _Relax_ , he was saying. _Please stop looking like you are plotting the murder of everyone here_ , he implied.

John raised his glass over the heads of the off-duty assassins lounging in the soft red light of the jazz bar, returning Winston’s salute. He drained the dark amber liquid inside and crunched on a half melted piece of ice, doing his best to consciously relax the muscles in his face and body. The twin guns in his holsters were digging into his ribs so he spread his legs a little and rolled his shoulders. Carrying was somewhat frowned upon Winston’s club, but everyone did. What did Winston expect, when everyone in the room was a trained killer?

But Winston did know a thing or two about hospitality. Addy, the tattooed bartender who always seemed to be tending bar whenever John was in town, brought him over a fresh bourbon with a grin.

“Hope you don’t mind me assuming, but you looked like you need it.” She glanced at the small stage in the corner. “Show’s about to start.”

“Thanks,” John let his fingers rest on the cool glass. “What show?”

“Where have you been, John? We always have live music on the weekend. This one’s new though. Not from around here.”

Addy left to tend bar with a muscular African-American that looked like he could pour drinks with one hand and crush a man’s skull with the other. His smile was wide and genuine as he chatted to the patrons of the bar.

Despite the number of hitters and criminal types congregating in one space the atmosphere was surprisingly jovial. The Continental assured neutrality so mob enforces, hitters, executioners and criminals of all classes could relax. You could talk shop here – no names of course. Name dropping was considered crass. But here the civilian mask just melted off, and the weight of all your secrets seemed bearable. That’s why the Continental was popular among the more civilised criminals, they wanted to be around their own, where they didn’t have to pretend to be someone else. It was hard work and it took a toll. Only after coming out of retirement did John realise how heavy that toll was. He’d forgotten how to bear his secrets. So he lingered on the fringes of the society he once knew so well.

He’d taken a few jobs, freelancing as an executioner, so that he could finish the repairs on his home. He needed to upgrade his security, and a proper go of it would take serious funds. His reputation was still well known in the appropriate circles. John Wick was back and more ruthless than ever, they would say. Whatever humanity he’d found in those years on the outside was gone.

The music changed. The repetitive ambient noise twisted, became alive. His eyes flicked to the stage and saw a woman bathed in soft sepia light standing behind the microphone. There was a man on the piano, and another with a saxophone. A woman in a suit and sneakers perched behind a small drum kit. Must be the show.

She didn’t introduce herself, she just waited a few more beats and then began to sing. Her voice was deep, sultry. It invited people in, enticed them to dance, but didn’t intrude. Her half-lidded eyes hid behind a mess of dark shoulder-length curls. John admired the shape of legs, perched on killer hells as they led up and up into the floaty black dress she wore.

He sipped his bourbon, a little watery now the ice had melted into it. She was good, there was no doubt. But she was nothing unique. She was everything one expected from a jazz singer. The dress, the red lips and dark eyes. John stood before she finished the first song and took his whiskey into one of the back rooms, where there was always a poker game on.

“Hey, it’s John Wick!” Johnny No Thumbs laughed a little nervously. “You want to join?” he asked.

The players welcomed him to the table like he hadn’t spent several years away, on the outside. The cards were shuffled, and he scooped up his hand without a flicker of emotion. John Wick’s poker face was better than ever. He had no emotion left to conceal. No rage. No sadness. He was entirely numb.

The scar on his nose, courtesy of Perkins, itched. He ignored it.

“Bet.”

…

Three hours later John was up eight-hundred dollars and two gold coins. He could tell at least one of the other players had been cheating for the last two hands. Maybe Henry West, that guy had always been light-fingered. Maybe it was Miki Hamato, the one they called Sensei. She was too smart and too cunning to be underestimated. She was deep within the inner circle of New York City’s _yakuza_ family, after all.

John quit the table, tucking his winnings into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. West and Sensei tutted and told him to stay. Johnny No Thumbs rubbed a hand over his sweaty face, having lost a few grand, some of which wasn’t his to spend.

“Good seeing you, Wick,” he said to John’s back.

John left by the service entrance at the back. He never liked leaving by the same way he came in. The alley was empty, save for a woman next to a dumpster hunched over a cigarette and a lighter, cursing when she couldn’t get it to light.

She’d heard his footsteps on the grimy stone and looked in his direction, “Hey, you got a light?”

John almost patted his pockets as he approached her, “No, sorry. Don’t smoke.” He left off the _anymore_.

“Okay, thanks anyway.” He was about level with her when she dropped the busted zippo. “Damn!”

John and the woman crouched simultaneously, both reaching for the lighter, just as a gunshot echoed overhead, spraying shards of broken brick over their heads.

“Shit!” she yelped and dived behind the dumpster, clutching at his arm.

John was too busy looking at the rooftops for the shooter to shake her off. Nothing. There was no light, he couldn’t see a damn thing. But the dumpster was protecting them for now, until the shooter found a new position. He thought about leaving the woman for a split second. She wasn’t his problem or his responsibility.

“Are they still there?” she breathed, raising her head to look around as well.

John pushed her head back down like she was an impertinent puppy. “Keep your head down,” he growled.

She started shuffling towards the main road on her knees, mumbling about how she had to get out. Stupid girl. Did she think it was any safer out there? He yanked her back and a bullet whizzed past where her head had just been, richocheting off the steel dumpster.

She looked up at him, scared but determined, and seemed to come to some sort of decision. “Your hired!” she hissed, and started to get to her feet. “Now get me the _fuck_ out here.”

John paused for a millisecond, but that was all it took. They could be after him, or they could be after her. Hell, whoever it was could be after them both. Didn’t matter. He had no plans to get intimate with a bullet tonight. And this alley stank like piss and rot. Time to leave.

“C’mon,” he grabbed the girl by her elbow and dragged her further down the alley, into the maze of backstreets, to try and break the shooter’s line of sight. It seemed to be only one shooter.

Hell of a job interview.


End file.
